


The Only Girl in the World

by roboticonography



Series: Flames 'verse [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deleted Scenes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deleted scene from "Flames We Never Lit." Steve and Natasha talk about Peggy's return, and what that means for their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Girl in the World

You didn’t get to be the Black Widow unless your ears to the ground had their ears to the ground.

 

This was what Natasha knew:

 

There was a woman, a brunette with an English accent, receiving treatment at the SHIELD hospital. She was listed as Jane Doe, and access to her was restricted.

 

She wasn’t a field agent, but she was being kept on a ward reserved for covert operatives—the same one, incidentally, where Clint was being treated.

 

This woman had received a recent visit from Tony Stark—which was curious, since Stark, as a consultant, had pretty limited access to SHIELD’s infrastructure.

 

The same woman had been taken to an observation room, on Director Fury’s orders, for a private audience with none other than Captain America. Cap wore his dress uniform for the occasion. From what Natasha’s sources told her, it was an emotional meeting, on both sides.

 

So when Steve said he wanted to talk to her about something, Natasha already had an inkling of what he was going to say: that Agent Margaret Carter, formerly of the SSR, MIA as of 1946, was alive and well and presently being held by SHIELD for observation.

 

It didn’t really concern Natasha that this was largely impossible; she was someone for whom the impossible was routine, especially where Steve was involved.

 

Steve, even though he could afford better, insisted on living in a shitty little box in a shitty little neighbourhood. His apartment didn’t even have air conditioning. It did, however, have cold beer, which they drank standing in Steve’s tiny kitchen: Natasha, lounging with her elbows on the counter, and Steve, propped against the wall by the fridge, looking ridiculous.

 

He was one of those people who was incredibly graceful in motion, but seemed to be forever at a loss for how to stand still. In terms of body language, he was apparently going for ‘casual,’ but wound up looking more like he’d just realized he had elbows and was trying out new and innovative ways to use them. He was nervous about this talk they were about to have.

 

Natasha went right for it: “I hear your best gal is back in town.”

 

His shoulders tensed. “Don’t,” he said, low and warning.

 

“What?” Natasha tipped up her beer bottle and sipped genteelly. “It’s period appropriate, isn’t it?”

 

“You know what I mean,” he said, crossing his arms. “Don’t make a joke out of it.” He uncrossed his arms, and put his hands in his pockets instead.

 

“Okay, so your… old war buddy?”

 

Steve did the little GQ-model pout that signalled he was annoyed. The only effect it had was to remind Natasha that she needed to put _Zoolander_ on his list of movies to watch. 

  


“Not much point in asking who told, is there?”

 

There wasn’t. “I’m surprised you’re here instead of over at the hospital. You tired her out already?”

 

He ignored the innuendo. “I’m trying to take things slow. She’s dealing with a lot. It’s tough. You don’t know what it’s like.”

 

“Right,” Natasha drawled.

 

To his credit, Steve realized his misstep almost immediately. “That’s not fair. Sorry.”

 

“No, Steve, you’re right. I have _no idea_ what it’s like to leave my home for a place where the language and culture are completely alien to me.”

 

He gave an emphatic nod, his shoulders lifting with it. “Yep. My bad.”

 

One of the frustrating things about being friends with Steve was that it was difficult to argue with him, unless both of you were truly dedicated to the cause. Once he trusted you enough to let his guard down, he was slow to take offense, quick to forgive, and disarmingly honest about his own failings. He also had the strategist’s habit of giving equal weight to both sides of almost any situation that wasn’t predicated on an obvious moral divide.

 

But he wasn’t immune to being baited, and Natasha was an expert button-pusher. It was her primary instinct, her training—and, she’d always suspected, her natural inclination as well.

 

Steve had given Natasha a part of himself that, by his reckoning, had belonged to Peggy Carter. And now Carter was here to claim what was hers.

 

Natasha had learned through experience to avoid these sorts of entanglements at all costs. She would rather just make it a clean break, before Steve started to resent her. They could still work together; Steve was unfailingly professional in that regard.

 

“You don’t have to tell her about me, you know,” said Natasha, off-hand. “It works to your advantage if you don’t. She’ll think you’re some sort of sexual prodigy.”

 

“Of course I’m gonna tell her, if it comes up. If _the subject_ comes up,” he amended quickly, seeing Natasha poised to interject a double entendre.

 

“You think it might not?”

 

“Like I said, she’s got a lot going on right now.” Unexpectedly, he added, “When she’s feeling better, I want you to meet her.”

 

“You don’t introduce your fuckbuddy to your girlfriend, Steve. It’s bad form.” She deliberately employed the crudest possible term. 

  


Steve didn't react, except to ask, “We’re not friends if we’re not sleeping together?”

 

Natasha could have said _no, we’re not_ with a straight face, and have that be the end of it. She had the ability to do it. It would probably be kinder, almost certainly easier.

 

But instead, strangely, she opted for honesty, a sign that she’d been spending too much time with Steve. “We’re still friends.”

 

“Okay.” He squeezed past her to the fridge, uncapped two bottles with his bare hand, and eased back through. “Come on,” he said, placing one on the counter in front of her, “keep up.”

 

Natasha wrinkled her nose. “American beer is for infants. I thought we were celebrating.”

 

His smile was incandescent, and a little goofy; a Steve Rogers smile, not a Captain America smile. “Yeah.”


End file.
